I am nearly through now."

"Telemaque will be a good book to take next. It is easy and
interesting. Have you got a French dictionary?"

"No; but I can buy one."

"You can use mine while I am gone. You may as well have it as not.
I have no copy of Telemaque, but I will send you one from Boston."

"Agreed, provided you will let me pay you for it."

"So I would, if I had to buy one. But I have got an old copy, not
very ornamental, but complete. I will send it through the mail."

"Thank you, Oscar. How kind you are!"

"Don't flatter me, Harry. The favors you refer to are but trifles.
I will ask a favor of you in return."

"I wish you would."

"Then help me pack my trunk. There's nothing I detest so much.
Generally I tumble things in helter-skelter, and get a good scolding
from mother for doing it, when she inspects my trunk."

"I'll save you the trouble, then. Bring what you want to carry home,
and pile it on the floor, and I'll do the packing."

"A thousand thanks, as the French say. It takes a load off my mind.
By the way, here's a lot of my photographs. Would you like one to
remember your professor by?"

"Very much, Oscar."

"Then take your choice. They don't do justice to my beauty, which is
of a stunning description, as you are aware, nor do they convey an
idea of the lofty intellect which sits enthroned behind my classic
brow; but such as they are, you are welcome to one."

"Any one would think, to hear you, that you had no end of
self-conceit, Oscar," said Harry, laughing.

"How do you know that I haven't? Most people think they are
beautiful. A photographer told my sister that he was once visited by
a frightfully homely man from the the country, who wanted his 'picter
took.' When the result was placed before him, he seemed
dissatisfied. 'Don't you think it like?' said the artist.--'Well,
ye-es,' he answered slowly, 'but it hasn't got my sweet expression
about the mouth!'"

"Very good," said Harry, laughing; "that's what's the matter with
your picture."

"Precisely. I am glad your artistic eye detects what is wanting.
But, hold! there's a knock. It's Fitz, I'll bet a hat."

"Come in!" he cried, and Fletcher walked in.

"Good-evening, Fletcher," said Oscar. "You see I'm packing, or
rather Walton is packing. He's a capital packer."

"Indeed!" sneered Fletcher. "I was not aware that Mr. Walton was in
that line of business. What are his terms?"

"I refer you to him."

"